The Electron that Walked Out
by DemonUntilDeath
Summary: I can’t believe it. I can’t wrap my mind around it – can’t form it, fix it, make it make sense. Because I can’t believe it in the first place. He's dead. And now I have to live with it because I'm the Atom he left behind. Slash
1. Chapter 1

_Disclaimer_: I own nothing

_Note: _So here's the (hopefully) satisfying one-shot sequel to the unsatisfying ending on _The Atom that Walked into the Bar_. If you have NOT read that story, please find it under my profile and read it first or absolutely none of this will make sense.

_Warning_: Angst, a little bloody details (nothing worse than the last chapter of _Atom_), Sadness and mentions of male/male relationships

_Note: _Please remember that Warrick is still alive in this universe (considering I finished _Atom_ with him still alive)

-o—o—o-

_**The Electron that Walked Out**_

_Two-Shot Conclusion_

Pt. I

-o—o—o-

I've never been in so much pain before.

I can't believe it. I can't wrap my mind around it – can't form it, fix it, make it make sense. Because I can't believe it in the first place.

Greg is dead.

And we weren't there.

Seconds. We were too late by _seconds_. I was there to see Grissom lean away from the window, tears flowing down cheeks that I've never seen wet before. I was there to see Grissom pull away from a hand that no one should ever let go.

But I wasn't there to catch it. I wasn't there to see him. To talk to him.

To save him.

No.

It was wrong – it was all so very wrong. You don't _let go_ of Greg. He's the little brother we all protect. The rookie we all teach. The goofball that makes us all smile.

He's not someone you ever let go of – not someone you ever leave.

I remember screaming. I remember trying to get to him, to take that hand and stay by his side because Greg isn't the kind of person who should ever be alone.

And I know that it took all the strength Warrick had to hold me back. I know that Catherine held me in her arms as I collapsed, all but sobbing against them both. I know I made no sense as I screamed at them – begged them to let me go to him.

Because Greg isn't supposed to be alone.

Grissom had turned to us with more regret and sadness in his eyes than I had ever seen.

We were too fucking late. And nothing is the same anymore.

That day, as per procedure, the four bodies of the deceased were brought into our lab and examined by Doctor Robbins himself.

I had never seen him cry either.

Since then, it's been the Twilight Zone. Hodges is oddly quiet – some might even say compliant. Archie always has puffy red eyes and Mandy and Wendy work at their stations with mascara running down their cheeks.

Catherine is a zombie in human skin.

But what did we expect?

Greg is dead. He's _dead_ – died in a traffic accident. On his way to California. On his way to a new life - a new beginning after trying to _kill himself_.

I've never believed in fate. I believe in God and his plan. But I don't believe in fate.

Fate is a fucking bitch that takes away your best friend as he's just decided to live. Fate whispers that it isn't your fault – gives you another entity to blame it on – while the rest of you screams that it is.

But I don't believe in Fate.

I haven't been able to sleep since _that day_. I can't get the image out of my head – the image of Greg in that car. Pale. Red. Unmoving.

Grissom pulling away.

But Greg isn't someone who should ever have to be alone.

I still blame my boss for letting go of his hand. Warrick for not driving fast enough. That white truck (some asshole named Bryan Manez) for not knowing how to drive in the first place.

But I'm blaming them all to hide away the fact that I blame myself for Greg's death.

For leaving him alone.

Because I'm the one who let him go.

Where would we be if I hadn't walked away from him? Would he be here, laughing at Catherine for the blank look in her face or Mandy for her puffy eyes and quivering lip, if I had stayed to talk for ten minutes more? Would it have made a difference?

Where would we be if I had just _tried _to convince him not to leave? Would Warrick still be struggling to keep me above water if I had managed to keep Greg in Vegas? Keep him off the highway?

Where would we be if I had told him I cared about him?

The funeral was…it was nice. Probably nothing that Greggo would have wanted (no rock and roll bands, no T-Shirts, no dazzlingly bright colors…no happy people) but it was what his family needed.

And Sara met us in California for the service. She flew in as she had when Greg was in the hospital weeks ago. That would have made him happy. Her sad, tearing face might not have.

I'd only seen his parents once – shortly after that beating. His mother had been crying then too, only she was trying to be brave, a bold front in the face of her bruised and nearly broken child.

Her husband had held her close to his chest, cradling her as I imagined she wanted to cradle her son. They had seemed like such nice, sweet people.

They stood side by side in the graveyard that day, shoulders touching as they stared at the small hole in the ground that would contain their son's remains.

Apparently, Greg didn't want a casket in the ground – no body in a box with six feet of dirt on top of him. I have a vague feeling I knew what that had to do with.

So there we were, standing as Greg's father moved over to the hole – it was just a hole…that's where Greg would remain for the rest of his life – and placed the urn into the ground. They said he wanted a tombstone, but not a casket.

What thirty-three year old decides they want a grave but no body to put in it?

I couldn't watch, so I watched them instead. There was no sobbing, no bold mask, no huddling together for the warmth and comfort of one another.

Just silent tears that flowed down both cheeks, mixing into the grass below.

Mike Sanders had been holding his son's remains – a silver urn with words written upon their base that I never got the chance to read. I hadn't really wanted to – how could I, when doing such would acknowledge Greg's death?

Jill Sanders was holding a hand-made structure of an atom.

I couldn't exactly wrap my mind around that either. So I used the confusion to cloud my thoughts and ignore what else was going around me.

Why the hell was she putting an atom structure in the ground beside her son?

I now use the image of that atom to keep out the image of Greg in that car…I use what I don't understand – a puzzle I must solve – to block out what I can't even begin to comprehend, let alone accept.

And somehow, two weeks have passed and I'm still here – thinking about that structure instead of his…

I sigh, replacing the crime scene photos on the layout table before me. I'm getting nowhere with this case – half of me threw myself into hard work – the other half stayed behind at that Californian graveyard.

I'm starting to think my brain was in that second half.

It's no surprise that Night Shift has fallen behind and again, a no-brainer that Ecklie is gloating. It gives us something to strive to – to come back and wipe that smug look off his face.

'_As in he is apparently above the concept of two weeks notice and no longer works here.' _

I lose my hold on my anger, my grief, _everything_, and punch the table. Which…I now regret because, **fuck**, my hand hurts! The pain helps me focus a little, but not that much on the case.

I've got to find a way around this, to block it out. Because I know I'm never going to get over it.

I run a hand through my hair, giving up with a groan and rubbing my tired face. I need a break.

Glancing to the clock, I'm surprised to find that my shift ended twenty minutes ago. How long have I been in the layout room?

Staring down at the crime scene photos that haven't revealed anything to me in the last two hours…I really don't want to know the answer to that question. With another sigh, this one caught between frustration and defeat, I leave the layout room.

Grissom is walking down the hall, staring hard at the file in his hands, reading through it for probably the hundredth time. As usual (and only having increased since Greg's – well, since recently) he is completely oblivious to the world and people around him and passes me without a word.

I spot Catherine near the entrance to the lab. She's obviously heading out – purse over her shoulder, jacket covering her thin frame. Part of me wants to stop her – the Texan part that was raised to be a good person – and tell her that she looks good or that I hope she had a good night or even good job on the case.

Anything to get her mind off Greg.

But I don't. I'm not sure I could. I've never been good at pretending to be alright when I'm not and I doubt I could pull it off long enough to comfort her.

The locker room is empty when I enter and I'm suddenly glad I forgot the time. I'm not sure I could deal with the small talk we all attempt at the end of the day – our desperate struggle to keep the day as normal as possible.

We had good times in here – I remember the day Warrick tripped over the bench (Mandy and Greg had set up his locker to explode with confetti on his birthday). I tried to catch him and the two of us ended up on the floor, both sporting bruised heads and elbows.

Or the time that Grissom walked in on Sara in the shower. I've never seen a man move that fast towards an exit.

Of course, I've never seen a woman turn quite that shade of red, either.

We'd had break downs in this room, laughs and trips and inside jokes in this room. Greg had given us a fashion show in his suit and 'pimp hat' in this room. I held Sara for half an hour while she cried in this room. Warrick and Catherine made out for twelve minutes in this room (all the while clueless that I was stuck hiding behind the back lockers).

This room had good memories. Memories of all of us – our good times, our bad times, the troubles and gains and ups and downs.

"Nick?"

I look up (when did I sit down?) through blurry eyes (when did I start crying?) to the wavering form of my best friend, standing in the doorway. I try to say something – anything – but my words break down into sobs and the next thing I know I'm doubled over and crying my heart out in the CSI locker room without any clue as to how it happened.

Warrick puts his hand on my shoulder, trying to comfort me as he sits down beside me on the bench.

How many times had I done that for Greg? How many times had he hoped for more? How disappointed was he that I never gave it?

My hands tighten into fists as I recall our last conversation. What had I done? I'd broken my friend's – a man I would call my brother – heart.

"Need to get it off your chest?"

I turned surprised eyes towards Warrick at his gentle words. I knew I looked a mess, what with fat tears rolling down reddened cheeks from inflamed eyes. Crying isn't pretty on anyone and I am certainly no exception.

My best friend is staring at me with all the patience in the world but also worry. He's well aware of how not-fine I've been these last few weeks.

The whole lab is, I think.

But they don't understand. Warrick and Catherine and Mandy and Grissom and Archie – they couldn't understand. They're hurt because Greg's gone and they were all his friends, his colleagues. His family.

They're not the reason he tried to kill himself. They're not the reason behind his move.

I'm the reason he's dead.

"The…the last thing I ever said to him," I whisper through a choked throat. My entire neck is on fire and I would swear, if I didn't know any better, that my throat is bleeding. That's the only explanation for the sheer physical pain building in my esophagus.

I lick my lips and rub my eyes and try again, "The last thing I ever said to him…it-it was _angry_. It was mean and I meant it – I meant to hurt him, maybe even guilt him into staying in Vegas. And now…" my voice breaks off and I look away, practically burying my head between my knees. "And now they're the last memory I have of him."

Warrick is silent for a long time and I wonder if maybe he knows. Does he know that Greg…loved me? Is he already aware of why our precious lab rat, our little rookie, had died?

"Then don't remember them."

I look up at him in surprise, at his blurry, calm composure. Did…does….he wants me to just _forget_? I can never forget those words – that wretched thing I did and how all of it is my fault.

I won't!

Anger is boiling up inside of me and I can feel it beginning to pool under the surface. My fists tighten again, fingers digging into the skin of my palm.

"When you think of Greg, don't think of whatever you said to him or the highway that night." I turn to look at Warrick once more, some of my surprise and confusion replacing my anger as he continues, knowing well how close I was to blowing up at him.

But my best friend is still composed, staring at me with more wisdom than I have ever known in his eyes. "Think of…Cha-Cha dances in Jubilee headdresses and sitting through games and presentations just to get your lab results.

"Think of all the horrible music and awful dancing." Warrick makes a face and I can't help but laugh, picturing the geeky lab tech doing his best impression of a white boy that can't dance.

Only, some of us aren't sure it's an impression at all.

Now that he's got a steady rhythm going, a smile lighting both our faces as we chuckle through misty (and in my case drowning) eyes, he keeps it going. "Think of all the punk T-shirts and those corny science jokes. That – _that_ – is the Greg that you should remember."

Science jokes. The atom. That night in the layout room – what case was it? The Miller case! – Greg had told me a joke about an atom. A dumb, cheesy joke a high school chem. teacher would tell to alleviate the boredom of his class.

It had meant something, I knew it had meant something by the way Greg had said it. It wasn't supposed to be funny or inappropriate or time wasting. He had been trying to tell me something and I was too blind to see it!

I stand up suddenly and Warrick is looking up at me, that concern back in his eyes and now mingling with confusion.

"Nick?"

"Science jokes," I mutter, turning to him with the brilliance of my epiphany written clear across my face. "The atom!"

Warrick doesn't seem to understand but I'm too caught up in my own revelation to really care. "Nick, man, what are you talking about?"

I smile suddenly, tears still running down my cheeks. I must be quite the sight to see. "Have you ever heard about the atom that walked into the bar?"

Now he's really looking at me oddly and I'm not surprised. This probably makes no sense to him but I don't have time to explain. I have to make a phone call. I swing my leg over the bench, throw open my locker and reach into its depths.

With a small, crumpled piece of paper securely grasped in my hand, I shut the metal door and turn back around. Warrick is still looking at me like he's thinking of calling the company shrink.

I give another smile – one I'm sure isn't all that consoling. "Thank you, Warrick!" Before he can say a word, I bolt from the locker room, hand patting my pocket to double check that my cell phone is still there.

I leave behind a very confused and slightly worried Warrick.

Before I've even reached the entrance to our lab, my cell is out. As I pass through the sliding doors, hit by the warm, stuffy outside air, the inked numbers on the worn piece of paper almost shine in the rising sun.

I've had it since the funeral, but could never bring myself to call. What would I say to the parents of the man who had lost his life because of me?

My fingers shake a little as I dial in the number; the distant sound of my phone beeping with each button reverberates in my ears, growing louder with each pulse. I put the phone up against my ear, closing my eyes and praying to God for all the courage He can give me.

"Hello, this is the Sanders residence. You're talking to Mike."

I panic and my gut reaction is to swallow – hard. I think my body just tried to swallow my tongue so I wouldn't have to talk.

"Hello?" That oddly cheerful voice – like the voice of an elder man who enjoys life for what it is and what he's given – brings fresh tears to my eyes.

I took away this man's _son_.

"H-Hi," I croak out and know, instantaneously, that Mr. Sanders can hear me crying through the line. "I…My name is N-Nick…"

"Ah, Mr. Stokes," the man acknowledges and I can hear the small smile through the phone. "You were a close friend of my son."

I nod, realizing too late he can't see it. "Y-Yes." I take a deep breath. _Calm down, Stokes. You can do this, the man didn't hate you at the funeral and he's not going to now!_

"How are you doing, son?" More tears are falling, coming from eyes that sting so harshly I want to press the heel of my hand into them until they stop or pop back into my skull.

"I…I have a question for you." I sniff, trying to clear my emotions away from the subject. The man on the other line waits patiently and all I can think about is how this is a good person that raised Greg.

And Greg had exemplified the best of his parents.

"Have…Does 'the atom that walked into the bar' mean anything to you?" I look upwards, trailing my gaze to the right to try and drain my eyes of the water they refuse to dam up themselves. "Was it a joke or something that Greg….that Greg knew?"

There was silence on the other line for several moments and I heard the shifting of fabric and the squeak of a chair as Mr. Sanders, I assume, sits down. "Yes." The reply seems not hesitant but uncertain on how to continue. Curious almost. "It was his favorite joke. A friend of his back in college turned it into a philosophy of sorts."

I close my eyes. I knew it. Relief floods through me and I nod several times, once more forgetting that he can't see it. "Is there any way I can talk to this friend? Do you have his contact information?"

With the relief of finally feeling back on track, feeling that something is finally working out, my body relaxes. I can feel tension that has been held tight in my back for three weeks slowly drain.

Greg was telling me something, and now I'll know what. I'll have something from him that might help me with his death; that will counter the guilt and the pain.

That will explain why he left.

"I'm sorry," Mike Sanders voice comes back after a moment. It sounds sadder than before, as if reminded of the unpleasantness that has been plaguing me. "Jeremy Hitchens died nine years ago. We…we buried out son next to him two weeks ago."

There's an echoing crash somewhere down in my feet as my heart plummets.

I don't know how to feel anymore – sad, lost, frustrated, angry, confused – I don't know how to do it anymore. I can't think. I don't know what to do next. My hope just crashed into a grave right beside the one I've been trying to deny and ignore for half a month.

A small hiccup breaks my thoughts as my body attempts to stop itself from sobbing, no thanks to my consciousness. I rub my creasing forehead, desperate for…for…I don't even know what for anymore. My voice is tight, straining within my throat. "Do you…happen to know what it meant?"

There's another pause on the other line. "The atom?" I nod again, this time to tired and drained to turn it into a verbal confirmation. "Did he tell you that joke?"

The question is almost prying but from the inflection of his voice, the curiosity in his question, I know he doesn't mean to sound suspicious. "Yes," I whisper weakly, nodding as I lean against the side of the CSI building.

The building Greg and I worked together in for eight years.

My skin digs into the rough exterior as I lay my forehead against my forearm. I briefly wonder if I look the very picture of defeat. "He told it to me a….a while ago."

"Live."

The one word comes so unexpectedly that it takes me several moments to register it at all. And when I finally do I realize that it makes no sense to me. "What?" I pick my head off my arm, staring at the wall and yet seeing nothing.

"It means live." The brisk words of the other man sound more like the Mike Sanders I knew from Greg's stories. I learned quickly after Greg's too hospitalizations that his father was a man of great humor but precise words. When he had something to tell you – and you could be sure it was important if he was taking the time to say it – you had better take it for all it's worth because he isn't going to tell you a second time and he isn't going to argue his point.

"Take what you've lost and live with it," he continues and I make sure to hear every word. "Life is filled with the things we lose and the things we gain. And atom can't achieve stability without them and neither can we."

I frown as the words slowly fill my head and my mind filters and deciphers them even slower. But when I get it…I get it.

And the revelation is somewhat shocking.

Live. Greg was telling me that night in the lab that I had to live with what happened to and around me. The world wasn't going to change for me, so I had to change for the world; adapt, fix my life to live with what I didn't have, what I lost or gained.

The simplest solution is usually the correct one. Grissom tells us that all the time; Greg just applied it to life in general. The simplest way of life was sometimes the best and to learn it we need only look to the simplest things.

A smile slowly spreads through my face despite the tears still falling. The atom. His last words for me.

_Live_.

"Greg believed that?" I ask softly as the smile grows. I lean my head against my arm once more. I can't help the memories that flash through my head.

Guess that Chemical Compound, lab gloves as hats and balloons and finger-puppet-people, morning meals of runny eggs and watered down coffee after a long shift, Blue Hawaiian searches and his horrified face when we'd found it and brewed it without him.

Warrick was right – they were all happy memories. And that is how I will remember Greg. Because I understand now; I'm supposed to be like an atom that lost the electron that gave it its balance.

I need to learn to survive without that electron. Even though I may lose another or gain a different one, I will have to survive without it.

"Most who've heard that story try and live by it." Mr. Sander's voice flows through the line and my mind feeds me another memory. I see Jill Sanders lowering that atomic structure into Greg's grave. She was smiling gently, even through her tears.

Just like I am now.

And the puzzle fits together, giving me a picture more grand and enlightening than I had ever thought it would be. "The atom you put in Greg's-"

Mr. Sanders cuts me off. "Yes. Number one – Hydrogen. Next year we'll bring flowers and Hellium. It's what he would have wanted."

And now I can hear it – the tears in the father's voice despite the cheerful tone and the happy pride in his words. He's just as sad as I am – maybe more so – but he's surviving.

Living with his loss.

'_Thank you,'_ I whisper to myself, to Greg and his father, to God. I close my eyes. "Mr. Sanders, I have a favor to ask."

-o—o—o-

_**The Electron that Walked Out**_

_Pt. I_

End

-o—o—o-

This turned into a two-part one-shot sequel/follow up (that is a really long title).

I hope it's been enjoyable so far. I know it's not comical (but this is Nick, not Greg, so it can't be quite as funny) and it was mostly meant to make you cry or at least feel some strong emotion.

_**Author's Notes**_

_The Choppiness of this chapter: _Like **The Atom that Walked into the Bar**, this story was written from a person's point of view and I took into account the way the person talks and the way I believe the character would think. With Greg, the thoughts were comical and jumped all over the place. With Nick, they are far more strict and controlled, becoming incomplete thoughts and sentences as he gets more emotional.

_Jill and Mike Sanders_: Having read several various names for Mrs. Sanders, I found that even after trying to come up with my own, Ms Maggs' _Jill/Jan/Jillian_ versions stuck with me the best. I give her and her wonderful stories full credit for this name in my story. Mike had no inspiration however. 8P

_Grammatical Mistakes_: I edited this myself shortly after writing it so I will not be surprised if you find any errors. Just let me know about them and I'll try and go back and fix them. I have a feeling most errors will be because of a missing 's'. My keyboard doesn't seem to like typing this letter much anymore!

_**End Author's Notes**_

Thank you all for reading and please review if you have the time!


	2. Chapter 2

_Disclaimer_: I own nothing

_Note: _I do apologize for the delay in getting this all to you. I had the small crisis of wondering if I should leave the story where it was, or continue with this planned conclusion.

I hope you all enjoy the decision.

_Warning_: Angst and mentions of male/male relationships

_Thanks to_: Everyone who reviewed and my Beta **KyoHana**!

-o—o—o-

_**The Electron that Walked Out**_

_Two-Shot Conclusion_

Pt. II

_-o—o—o-_

_-Three Weeks Later-_

The loud pulse of the rock music blasts right to my ear drums as I enter the bar, wincing slightly with every heavy thrum. Getting through the throng of people with the box in my hands is difficult, but I resist making a scene (by pulling out my badge and going Robo-cop on the dancing crowd).

With some amount of struggle and strife, I manage to find my way to the long bar that lines the east wall of the establishment. A bartender, one I recognize from the few times Greg and I came here (it was Greggo's favorite bar, though it was rare that he could manage to drag Warrick and me along), glances at me, some form of recognition crossing his features as well.

"Can I help you?" he hollers over the beating music, eyeing the box I slide onto the counter. It isn't all that large, no more than a foot and a half side to side.

I lean over it, trying to keep the conversation, which I know will consist of shouting, as there's no way around it, between the two of us. "Do you know Greg Sanders?"

The bartender seems to think for a moment, eyes darting off to the side as he sets down the empty glass he had been about to fill. After a moment, he nods, and I can see that he does, indeed, remember. "You came in with him sometimes," he supplies, still nodding. "You and that taller, darker guy."

I nod, smiling slightly. Greggo had been the type to leave an impression wherever he went, with or without us. I push the box a little further towards the bartender, catching his eye with it once again. I lean closer, having to tilt around it. He matches my movement, instinctively moving closer as well, as if I might have a secret to tell.

And it's a good secret to hear. "I have a story to tell you, and a favor to ask."

_-The Next Evening-_

The loud music is pounding once more between my ears, but I go with it, letting my head and shoulders bob in time with the beat. An infectious smile has spread over my features as I watch Catherine and Warrick out on the dance floor.

I don't know why I never noticed the attraction between the two of them before (even when I accidentally spied them kissing in the locker room, I still didn't see the extent of their attraction). I suppose I just didn't know how to look or what to see. But ever since my initial talk with Mr. Sanders, I'd been noticing a lot of things.

Everywhere I go, where before I had seen people just surviving day to day, I now see atoms with electrons, struggling to regain their balance, fighting for the right to live. Life was full of losses and gains, and everywhere, life moved on in spite of it.

It's uplifting; something I can't really explain without sounding cheesy. But I've found a new way to appreciate both pain and happiness, and I couldn't have done it without Greg.

Thinking of the lab-geek, I turn my head to the bar, my gaze landing on the third shelf, as it has been all night. There, spaciously placed between the lined bottles of liquor, is the structure of an atom, built from scratch and painted by hand.

There's a metallic plate on the base, though it's impossible to read from this distance in the flashing lights. But I know the words by heart. I had them engraved there, after all.

_GREG SANDERS_

_Our Beloved_

_Atom that Walked into a Bar_

_1975-2009_

"Do you think he's happy?"

I turn my attention to my wife, who had followed my gaze before looking back at me. Krista had been extremely understanding during the last few weeks, though her initial surprise when I told her everything was understandable.

Still, she had been a wonderful friend and wife throughout the ordeal, and I have probably put her through too much. I place my hand on top of hers, sharing my smile. "He's an atom in a bar. I bet he's positively thrilled."

I looked around again, catching Catherine laughing as Warrick spun her into his chest. Grissom and Brass are seated, relaxed for once, across from us as they share a round of drinks and talk about whatever it is those two talk about.

I turn back to Krista, tightening my grip on her hand in a reassuring way. There are tears forming in my eyes, but I don't let them fall. They don't need to fall tonight. "Besides," I add, giving a brief gesture to our group, "he's got all his favorite electrons around him. How could he not be?"

Grissom, catching the tail end of our conversation, leans forward, placing his glass back on the table. "Scientifically speaking, Nick," he begins, and though he has no smile on his face, I can't help but think he's grinning at us. "If we are electrons, we only dampen his 'positive' thrill."

I give my boss a face, scrunching my nose at him. "Stop killing my philosophical play on words with science."

It's a very out-of-character statement for me, being such a science geek myself (though the Aggie sweatshirts and Texas accent help to hide it most of the time), but it makes those of us at the table laugh. Greg would have laughed too, and I find myself looking back at his atom.

I believe in heaven, and I believe, more than anything, Greg is sitting up there laughing at us in his favorite Rock-N-Roll T-shirt and crazy, spiked hair (though he would try to claim he was laughing _with_ us).

I smile, running my finger absently along the rim of my glass. I still miss him, and there are times when I'm not sure the comfort of his atom philosophy is enough to get me through, but I'm moving on. I'm balancing myself, finding new electrons to help me with my loss.

And I'm living.

My thoughts are pulled back to the present by a kiss to my cheek, and I blink in surprise before focusing on my wife, who's staring at me in adoration and concern. "I hope Mr. Sanders doesn't get too jealous," she says softly, the concern in her voice making it clear she's not being sarcastic, but sincere. She pulls away a bit, seemingly less worried now that I've come back to the realm of reality. "But just in case," she continues, "I'll keep my affections to a minimum."

She winks at me and I can't help the laugh that bubbles out of my chest. I love my wife, in a very different way than I love Greggo.

In the beginning, it had been a large part of the wave of guilt that had threatened to drown me. But with the help of a joke that had a deeper meaning than I ever could have guessed, I'm beginning to understand that it's okay. It's okay that I didn't loved Greg the way he loved me. The fact that he had loved me was what mattered. We can't always regret the choices we make in life and the uncontrollable things that happen to us.

We just have to rebalance ourselves and live.

And I'm doing that. I'm finding my way through the guilt I always cast upon myself and the pain of not having my lab rat friend around anymore. But I've got my own electrons counting on me, helping me maintain stability.

And I owe it to them, to myself, and to the memory of my lost electron, to keep living life.

As we prepare to go, all but dragging Cath and Rick off the dance floor, I stop at the door, letting the others file out first. Krista pauses beside me, but I give her a reassuring smile. I'm just going to say my goodbyes. That's all.

She gives a nod, gently placing a hand on my shoulder before heading out.

I turn back to the flashing lights and the pulsing music, spying Greg's atom from my spot by the door. Mr. Sanders had been surprisingly understanding when I asked his permission to exhume his son's remains.

I'd even offered to pay for it, but the man had just declined, insisting that if this would bring me closure, it was worth whatever cost.

It was at that point in time that I realized Greg's parents knew who I was. And I don't mean a fellow CSI or a close friend. Thinking back on it, I should have known Greg would tell his parents about the man he loved.

And I'll never know if he'd told them outright, or if they figured it out on their own.

But part of me, the part that grew up with a strict (but loving) mother, five sisters, and the Judge, was shocked that Greg's parents obviously felt inclined to go to some length and expense to find me peace.

They had known, all along, how much I meant to their son, when I didn't know at all.

I had taken, with parental permission, of course, half of Greg's ashes, and placed them in the hollowed interior of my hand-made Carbon atom. I had contemplated which atom I should build, thinking perhaps Selenium (34 on the table; Greg's age) would do, but decided that building an atom with thirty-four electrons was going to be too difficult and not likely to fit on a bar shelf.

In the end, I settled on Carbon, which had six electrons: Grissom, Brass, Warrick, Catherine, Sara, and me. It was still a pain in the butt to build, but worth it in the end.

A reflection of one of the brighter, flashier lights catches my eye and I realize that the bartender is returning a bottle of liquor to one of the shelves, the glass container catching the lights. It's Tequila, the same brand Greg had been drinking on New Year's Eve.

The bartender places it next to Greg's atom, and then goes back to work, oblivious to the act and its significance. I only end up laughing at the irony, knowing my trademark smile is back on my lips. During his ordeal, Greg had told me several times how much he hated irony.

"Well, Greggo," I whisper softly, knowing no one will hear me in the loud bar, "you're either laughing with me or complaining about it." I let myself chuckle again before turning for the door. "I hope it's the first."

And with that, Greg Sanders' last electron said his goodbyes and walked out of the bar.

-o—o—o-

_**The Electron that Walked Out**_

_End_

-o—o—o-

Well, it was short, but I felt the separation of chapters necessary. I do apologize for the delay, but hope you enjoyed all the same.

Thank you for reading this story, as well as its prequel, and please review.


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